


Hear the Sirens

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Awesome Benny, Benny Lives, Blood Kink, Boat Sex, Domestic Fluff, Established Benny Lafitte/Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, Frottage, Hand Jobs, I'm Going to Hell, Lap Sex, M/M, Openly Bisexual Dean, Season/Series 09, Shameless Smut, Siren Castiel, Top Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 13:15:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4921054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You did what?! Benny, he’s a friggin’ siren—!”</p><p>“Only if you want him to be,” Benny said. He straddled fake Cas before sinking his paws into his hair, effectively yanking him away as Benny rolled languorously onto him. Dean heard the siren curse something sailor-worthy under its breath as it aped Benny’s movement. “Today, he can be Cas.”</p><p>Or the one where Benny is the best boyfriend ever, next to Dean, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hear the Sirens

If there's one thing Dean Winchester will take with him beyond his grave—because let’s face it, being a Winchester comes with a price—it's that his words belie his actions.

For instance, there was the time when Dean told his then-estranged brother Sam that as long as he was around, nothing bad would happen to him. Then, months later, Sam died in his arms, Dean repeating those words like a broken record player trying to salvage its meaning through one too many _clicks_ and _pops_.

Or there was the time he told said brother that they were better off without each other, that whatever it was they had between them—be it love or family or a lethal combination of the two—it made them weaker.

And let's not forget the time he shanked Amy Pond, Sam's first love, after he looked his brother dead in the eye and told him that he wouldn't, that he _trusted_ his brother’s judgement over his own prejudice. Then the walls caved in, the truth came out, and he and Sam were booking separate honeymoon suites.

Then there was Cas, whom he had told numerous times over the course of their tempestuous friendship that he was okay, including the time he bared the Mark of Cain _and_ shanked yet another Ghosts of Girlfriends Past after she, completely unbeknownst to Cas, shanked _him._

Only, Cas knew when Dean was lying through his teeth and wasn't afraid to call him out on it. The only other person who could do that was…

That story is a contradiction wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a homicidal taco. He spends his whole life severing the spinal cords of skin-wearing mosquitos only to join alliances with one who not only makes a friend out of Dean, but does his job for him, complete with Sunshine Cleaning and everything.

Needless to say, his life is a never-ending stigma of controverted claims and predicable tragedies. There was one instance; however, when Dean was completely honest with himself and his loved ones— _loved_ being the operative term—only, instead of voicing the thoughts that typically put him in Caesar position, he decided to act first. After all, that method’s proved well with torture.

Okay, maybe not the best example.

_“Brother, what’re you doin’ here?”_

_“I… I don’t know.”_

_Benny’s stark blue eyes raked Dean’s everything in the doorway with a plaintive smile. Dean figured it had little or more to do with the ginger dust mites splattered like an abstract artist’s canvas across his exhaust-ridden face. Or maybe it was the way his entire body slouched forward with the weight of the invisible world on his shoulders. Or perhaps it was his emerald eyes that looked liquefied, adrift. “Come inside.”_

_Benny fixed him a drink—dry bourbon, none of that shit mixed in that comes in a crushable can— but before he could so much as hand it to him, Dean’s lips were on his with the friendliness of a tsunami kissing the shores of Japan. Benny stumbled into the countertop, effectively knocking over the whiskey. Dean’s arm came out to wrap around Benny’s nape, pulling their bodies impossibly closer. Benny smelt like saltwater and seaweed and his smile tasted like years of blood and bent-up rage—something Dean could relate to._

Never once has Dean told Benny he loves him aloud, because he knows once it slips out from underneath him, someone or something with the same vengeful spirit will use it against him. Benny understands, and hasn’t once tried to pressure him or make him feel guilty about not saying those three little words. In fact, the last time he actually told something remotely close to the truth was the day he walked away from everything, not unlike his revenge-crazed father.

That would explain why he hated his reflection so much.

“Mm, what’s that smell?”

Benny wiggled the Teflon until the smell hit Dean’s nostrils like a Sunday morning. “Steak n’ eggs,” he said over the sound of sloshing grease. “You take it medium-rare, right?”

“I’ll take it any way I can get it,” Dean growled into Benny’s throat. Benny chuckled under the contact.

“Unless you like burnt-to-a-char, I suggest you quit _that.”_

“Quit what?” Dean asked innocently as he drew Benny’s throat between his teeth. “Oh, _that.”_  Just as Dean’s calloused thumb swung from Benny’s bare naval, journeying down to his growing hardness, a whooshing sound crowded both men’s ears. They turned around to the sight of Castiel, who was about ten inches from swan-diving into the floorboard.

Dean was the first to lunge out, catching him before he could properly collapse. Dean pushed back a scene from the day the angels fell, wearing out his name to the darkened sky. “Whoa, man, what’s up? Talk to me.” This wasn’t like Cas to—well, maybe he _did_ tend to show up uninvited, but he certainly didn’t impose on Dean unless the hunter was thinking about him. (Which he _definitely_ wasn’t… or… at least he _thinks_ he wasn’t…)

“The angels they’re… Bartholomew, he—the whole place was…” Cas’s last words were hacked up in a thick string of blood that now pooled in his limp hand. Wretchedly, Dean guided him to the kitchen table.

Benny turned off the stove and grabbed an old wash cloth from the kitchenette, handing it to his lover, but Dean was too busy drinking in Cas’s state. Aside from looking devastatingly wrecked, from his stonewashed face to his buckled-in knees, there was something _off_ about him. Cas was always an odd guy, but there was something about his body language that countered the Cas he knew.

Plus, he wasn’t wearing his trenchcoat; the one Dean folded and tucked in the furthest compartment of the Impala’s backseat so that Sam wouldn’t find it one day and couple his growing suspicion with questions he didn’t have answers to— _couldn’t_ answer to.

“I, uh… I don’t know where to start,” Cas said, blue eyes boring holes into his hands.

Dean nodded, quelling his reservations for the moment. “Alright, you said something about Bartholomew?” But just as Cas was about to respond, Dean’s head snapped to his reflection in the table—a face stretched beyond Botox with a skeletal-like mouth and gaping wormholes for eyes. The hunter jumped out of his seat and posed a knife to the creature’s throat. It wouldn’t do much but slow it down, but it was better than dying. “I know what you are,” Dean growled hotly.

“Dean!” He heard Benny patting closer. Dean held up his free hand.

The creature’s lips turned up sickly. “Well, well… I guess it’s true, Dean Winchester _is_ the fairest of them all.” Dean sunk the blade further into its skin; drawing blood that he had to remind himself wasn’t Castiel’s.

“Why are you doing this?” he demanded. The siren titled its head in the same, disconcerted way as his friend.

“You Winchesters sure are dense. Cas is your _dreamboat,_ hot stuff.”

Dean’s hand that held the blade shook despite himself. “He’s not wrong, ya know.” The hunter craned his head to Benny, who advanced toward him with a small smile. “After all, I’m the one who brought him here.”

“You did what?! Benny, he’s a friggin’ _siren_ —!”

“Only if you want him to be,” Benny said. He straddled fake Cas before sinking his paws into his hair, effectively yanking him away as Benny rolled languorously onto him. Dean heard the siren curse something sailor-worthy under its breath as it aped Benny’s movement. “Today, he can be Cas.”

Like a moth to flame, Dean was drawn in by his own dependably unsated curiosity. He set the knife aside and took Siren Cas’s other leg. The chair beneath the three of them protested, but Dean wasn’t having any of it. Once he was on top of Cas, who was preening ear to ear at the attention he was getting, he dragged his half-hardness against his pant leg. He then cast a quick glance to Benny, who wore the same complacent smile as he Simon Said his action. Dean captured his lips, tongues like swordsmen battling for dominance on the open sea.

The hunter felt Cas’s mouth just behind his ear, licking and biting behind the sensitive flesh. Dean broke away from Benny long enough to turn his head and kiss him. Cas kissed him back feverishly, tasting not one, but two men that Dean had been keeping from.

Cas needn’t worry, though, because seconds after their wordless exchange, Dean’s careful hand was moving in accord with Benny’s, down to his crotch. Benny felt Dean’s hand lace with his own as they began to pump him, working out the seeded tension from every nook and cranny. Cas’s head lolled forward just as Benny’s mouth latched onto the prickly underside of his neck like a fisherman to his dinner, lapping up the blood there. With his newly neglected mouth, Dean brought up the forefingers that were cupped around his hardness—now only _half-_ hardness, no thanks to them—and pried his mouth open until he was worshipping his own taste.

“This’s all you, _Cher_ ,” he heard Benny growl once he’d sucked a sufficient hickey.

He didn’t know what that fully meant until Benny stepped off of Cas and Cas was undoing the zipper on his slacks, giving Dean full access. The angel’s hands were as graceful as the celestial wave of intent his vessel held, not only ridding Dean of his jeans but stretching him open in ways unimaginable. He would be content to just ride his fingers, but alas, there was some corrupting needed to be done.

Dean didn’t know if he was talking about Cas or _him._

There was nothing gentle about it. The minute he sat on top of Cas marks the time that Dean officially lost it. Cas had to bury his head into his neck to keep from doing the same. Dean moved in ways he only thought were possible in a U2 song, like that time his dad tried teaching him a stick shift—forward and back and around again until he hit the right gear, that one that made the engine purr as she went into town.

Cas’s hands scratched and clawed through Dean’s clothed back, grip tightening long after they both came. Exhaustion swept over Dean as he shot his attention to Benny again, leaning against the kitchen counter, dominant hand tucked into the thick of his crotch. The hunter chuckled at the sight— _both_ sights, splayed out just for him, simple, yet so beautiful in a trillion different ways. He had to remember to thank Benny later for his early birthday present by riding more than just the high seas.

“Hey, _Cher_ ,” he called with a chuckle, “you still want your scrambled eggs?”

Breathlessly, Dean laughed, “I think my eggs are plenty scrambled for today, babe.”


End file.
